


Getting on the Right Foot

by LeeMac



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Cheesy Roleplay, Even if no one else does, F/F, Fluff and Humor, French-speaking Root, Humor, I think it's gently funny, Light BDSM, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Probably because Shaw likes it tbh, Root is TRYING to be submissive ok, Root is adaptable, Root learns she likes something new, Sexual Roleplay, Shaw has a French-language fetish, Shaw has more than one fetish, Smut, Super-mild d/s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-25 03:53:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21570373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeeMac/pseuds/LeeMac
Summary: Root and Shaw make a little wager during a mission. Root loses. Shaw's in charge.
Relationships: Root/Sameen Shaw
Comments: 3
Kudos: 36





	Getting on the Right Foot

**Author's Note:**

> I'm just going to come out and say it - this fic entails depictions of feet in a kinky context. 
> 
> But if you're in the mood for some cheesy roleplay/mild smut, please bear with me, because I have tried my best to make it as unsquicky as possible. There's a foot massage and some kissing and stuff after. If you don't like feet at all, skip this one!
> 
> Hopefully it's not totally OOC. I have a theory that Shaw would nearly always be very up front about what she wants, but she is not keen on being laughed at if it's something that might be a little "unusual". So sometimes she might be more indirect.
> 
> Content gets a little E-rated in the last para.
> 
> Footnotes for all the French at the end. Root's French is intended to be a little stilted and over-formal for their roleplay purposes, but please let me know if something is just wrong/bad. I'll tweak published stuff if there are errors/improvements to be made.

Root carefully inspected herself in the mirror. White button-down shirt with the three top buttons open, check. Black pencil skirt, check. Loosened black tie, check. Stockings with suspenders, check. Shiny black pumps, check. What Shaw liked to refer to as her _nerd glasses_ , check. Her hair was down and nicely brushed out. A little light makeup and a nice rich shade of lipstick completed the look.

She met her own eye ruefully as she took inventory. One day, she would learn not to take any of Shaw’s “little bets”—it was _always_ a sure thing. A sure _Shaw_ thing.

* * *

Root was certain there was no way that Shaw could take out two of the targets on the stakeout with a single bullet. The sneaky former agent actively misled her by nodding meaningfully towards a couple of goons in the northwestern room of the building they were watching. The Machine had agreed with Root’s assessment of its impossibility ( _she_ was not cheating, since Shaw was fully aware that she was in constant communication with Her …or she should be by now) and so Root willingly agreed to “do whatever the other one wants for one hour, no complaining or sass”. The thought of Shaw doing her bidding without complaint for an hour literally made Root’s mouth water. So perhaps she hadn’t assessed the situation as _thoroughly_ as she should have.

As soon as she said, “Sounds like fun, sweetie”, Shaw pivoted the sniper rifle to the north _eastern_ room. Barely pausing to aim, she neatly shot the two moronic bad guys who were standing practically top of each other simultaneously through their left and right knees. Shaw muttered a smirking _gotcha!_ as they fell to the floor in agony and she lowered the rifle. 

Root felt her jaw literally drop. She was caught between pulling Shaw on top of her right then and there from the _epic hotness_ of it, or pulling out her stungun and giving herself a thorough zapping for her _epic stupidity_. It wasn’t until Shaw turned around with a cocked eyebrow to catch Root’s reaction and snorted out a rude laugh at her poleaxed expression that she managed to close her mouth and contemplate the potential consequences.

Well, okay, unless Shaw was going to be _truly mean_ and force Root to spend that hour rebuilding the crappy Celeron laptop she kept dragging around with her, this could be a win-win kind of thing. She was betting on it.

* * *

Her outfit seemed to be all in order and in accordance with Shaw’s requirements. At least it wasn’t overly suitable for fixing crappy PCs, although with Shaw’s sense of humor, computer repair might still be in her future. Root threw a wry smile at her reflection and left the bathroom.

In the hotel suite’s main room, Shaw was already reclining in an armchair, her bare feet crossed at the ankle and resting on a ottoman. She was wearing Root’s red silk robe (she _had not_ mentioned she was borrowing it) with nothing else visible underneath. The robe reached Root’s knee, but on Shaw, it was almost kimono-length. Her hair was loose and lay over her shoulders; she looked utterly ravishing.

Shaw looked up at her approach and her expression shifted to a flat stare.

“Okay, it looks like you managed to get your outfit correct. Here are the rest of your instructions. One, get that dorky grin off your face. You’re going to be my personal assistant and assistants don’t have those expressions, if they’re professional. Two, you will only speak French. Three, you will address me with the proper terms of respect. Got it?”

“Yes, absolutely,” Root responded, as she put a respectful expression on her face. _Personal assistant_ sounded fun, but she managed not to smile, dorkily or otherwise.

“Uh huh,” Shaw frowned. “What happened to item two?”

 _Oh. Dammit._ “Absolument, madame. Je comprends.” 1

“Great, you remembered item three as well. Get over here and sit on this,” said Shaw, gesturing beside her, disappointingly.

“Bien entendu, madame.” 2

Root scurried over and perched herself on the other ottoman, making sure to arrange her legs nicely as she lowered herself to the seat. Shaw’s eyes raked over their entire length up to the clasp on the suspender as Root’s skirt rode up slightly on her thigh. These things can happen when you’re trying to present yourself appropriately.

Shaw’s eyes narrowed a bare fraction, but her expression didn’t change in any other way. “Now paint my nails.”

“Comme tu souhaites,” said Root obediently, as she looked around for supplies. 3

“Ah-ah, _mademoiselle_ ,” warned Shaw, frowning. 4

“Comme vous souhaitez, madame!” corrected Root, scrunching her nose at herself. 5 _Stupid French—how are you supposed to remember to_ vouvoyer _someone you’re hopefully going to fuck soon?_ 6

A blood-red nail polish—same shade as the robe—was on the coffee table with a few other items. Root took the polish and carefully painted Shaw’s nails, her hair falling around her face as she did so. She was conscious of Shaw’s gaze all over her as she worked, lingering on her hands and face and legs and the opening of her shirt. Of course, she would instantly look away if Root appeared to notice, so she was careful to keep her attention on Shaw’s nails and her elegantly strong hands.

Once finished, she capped the polish bottle and returned it to the coffee table and awaited further instruction. Shaw looked at her nails critically, taking her time.

“Okay, that looks good.”

“Je vous en prie,” murmured Root, eyes lowered. 7 She really was determined to do this dutiful thing _well_.

“Something else though,” Shaw said, frowning. “The steak I had earlier was OK, but the pepper sauce was under-peppered. The wine had some sediment in the decanter as well. The chef and sommelier need to up their game and I want you to tell them it wasn’t good enough.”

 _What was this? The hotel food had been excellent, as was the wine. The Machine had pulled out all the stops getting them into this very exclusive place while she worked out her debt. Hm, maybe the nail job was just_ too good _for Shaw’s little routine._ Root mentally patted herself on the back for her amazing nail-painting skills.

She was also more than capable of adjusting to evolving scenarios on the fly. 

“Désolée, madame. M. Finch et Chef Jean sont déjà rentrés chez eux. Je leur en parlerai demain.” 8

“Hmph,” grumped Shaw, with the tiniest glint of humour in her eye. “I’m feeling even more pissy now that they’re getting away with their crappy service till tomorrow. My feet need a massage to help me lose some of this tension.”

“À votre guise, madame,” said Root, venturing a small professional smile. 9 She was feeling quite proud of herself for not getting the giggles so far. Although, while Shaw’s material was simple, she made it work. Her _delivery_ was definitely effective—Root already was right in the mood to _assist_ Shaw in any way she possibly could. Soon.

Shaw gestured in a _get on with it_ kind of way towards a small plastic squeeze bottle on the coffee table. Root moved around to perch on the end of the table near Shaw’s feet and reached for the bottle and the small white towel that was laid out next to it. She put a little arch in her back as she did so, and was gratified to see Shaw’s gaze flick to the open V of her shirt and flick away again. After arranging the towel and taking Shaw’s feet into her lap, she shifted to stretch out her legs to their fullest extent, before crossing one ankle over the other and tucking them to the side nearest Shaw. She caught the avid flash as Shaw’s eyes lingered on her during these manoeuvres, but managed to keep her smile small and brief. Professional.

The massage oil was light and had a nice, spicy aroma. Frankincense blend, perhaps. Root warmed it carefully in her hands and began on one of Shaw’s feet, smoothing her oiled hands all the way from the ankle to the toes before starting to work her way through the pressure points. Shaw’s body relaxed and she gave out a voiceless sigh. The sound and movement sent a pulse of heat right to Root’s core, her cheeks flushing up in response. One of the most delicious things about intimacy with Sameen was the contrast between her usual controlled and vigorous physicality with the moments where she _let go_ and became almost catlike in her responses to touch. She shot a glance at Shaw to see whether she noticed Root’s reaction, and found her looking back through lowered lashes and the merest hint of a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

Once again, Root had to force herself to refocus on the present task. There were plenty of places her oiled-up hands _could be_ right now, but not where they should be. Actually, they _should be_ there too, but that would be breaking the rules of this little game. The important thing was _not_ to think of those other places, but rather Shaw’s lovely proportionally-long feet, with their nicely-spaced long toes, high arches, and refined ankles leading to deliciously muscular calves. Well, perhaps not to think of _those_ so much, but rather concentrate on getting into the knots with her fingertips, rolling her knuckles firmly into the soles, making a ring of thumb and forefinger and pulling the tension from each toe in turn, and alternating all of that with long firm strokes over the entire foot and up over Shaw’s delightful ankle and lower leg.

For some reason, still, _focus_ was being annoyingly elusive.

Shaw’s eyes were closed and her face relaxed, and she had slumped further down into the chair. The small smile still hovered over her full lips and she gave out the occasional suppressed grunt when Root hit a tender spot and delved into it with firm thumbs. Root was being extremely good and interspersing the more intense massage with the broader firm strokes over Shaw’s feet with her hands, no matter _how much_ those little grunts were making her want to find even more knots and dig into them _hard_. Not to mention contemplating _all_ the ways she knew to pull uncontrolled noises out of the other woman.

She had to blame that slight distraction for her awkward move while leaning to pour more oil from the bottle. As her other hand was coming up to receive it, Shaw unfortunately chose that moment to rearrange her feet in Root’s lap, and the tender sole of one foot ended up raking hard over Root’s black-painted nails.

“FUCK!” yelled Shaw as her eyes flew open and she sat bolt upright, yanking her feet from Root’s lap. Root felt truly awful at causing such a horrible sensation (naturally, Shaw refused to acknowledge how sensitive her feet were and she was _lucky_ that Root was good at touching them with exactly the right degree of firmness), and she started to apologise profusely (and Frenchly). But when she saw the horrified expression lingering on Shaw’s face, which somehow made her look just like an affronted Persian Regina George, she couldn’t help herself and grinned like a complete fool, a little huff of amusement coming out of her mouth. Shaw’s eyes immediately snapped to hers and she began to growl, “ _Root_ …!”

 _That_ tipped her over—the laughter burst out uncontrollably. For a little too long. She’d built up a bit of tension _somewhere_ during the massage, and it kind of came out the wrong way.

As she laughed, Shaw’s face went absolutely blank and she sat back in the chair, waiting in a somewhat sinister way for Root to finish, her eyes glittering. After several long moments, Root managed to get herself under control and went to wrap her hands comfortingly around Shaw’s feet, which were now firmly back on the ottoman.

“Nope, don’t touch them!” barked Shaw.

Root’s could feel the pleading expression manifest on her face—she really _did_ feel bad about letting her laughter add insult to injury. As well as the original injury. She opened her mouth to restart her apology, but Shaw interrupted.

“No, shut up. No puppy-dog eyes. And _no pouting_.”

Root almost _got_ a pout at that last, but managed to suppress it. She tried to reassume the professionally-respectful expression she’d managed earlier.

Shaw was now right into what Root thought of as her _officer-mode_ , straight back, clipped monotone voice and all. 

“You’re going to have to do something damn special to get back in my good graces, Root. You were doing pretty well before then.” She paused for a few beats, staring the other woman down. “Get me a Scotch.”

Root understood that she would have to navigate the next few minutes with real care to get this game of theirs on a good, uh, footing again. She got up as gracefully as possible, eyes lowered, and backed away until she was out of Shaw’s direct eyeline. At the bar, she found the 17-year-old Balvenie Doublewood, poured out a good measure into the appropriate glass and added a splash of water. Returning to Shaw’s side, she went down on her knees to present the glass to her, as apologetically as she could without saying a word.

“Good,” said Shaw, taking the glass and tossing half of it down while she eyed Root. “I’ve decided how you’re going to make it up to me. I want you to finish the foot massage.”

Root cocked an eyebrow despite herself— _how strangely prosaic_ —but Shaw hadn’t finished.

“Yes, I want you to finish the massage… with your _mouth_.” She looked Root dead in the eye and _smiled. Evilly._

Root froze. _Foot worship. The smartass little shit wanted her to do_ foot worship. _Ugh!_

Images of pale sweaty desperate men slobbering and crawling in front of latex-catsuited teenage dominatrices in 8-inch spike heels filled Root’s brain. In fact, she had _played_ such a dominatrix in her late teens for such a desperate man on a certain job, but she’d managed to keep the target away from her feet (a strategically-injected nice little drug cocktail had taken care of the problem—permanently). It really was _not_ an appealing scenario.

Given the twinkling in Shaw’s eyes as she tilted her head to watch Root’s reaction, the little rat-bastard definitely knew that too. “You may speak now,” she said, and took a smug sip of her whisky, waiting.

Root knew what was implied with the permission to speak—Shaw was providing an opportunity for her to give their version of a safe word. (Root: “Not really my thing, thanks anyway.” Shaw: “Are you fucking _serious_ right now?”)

Suddenly, though, the hackneyed image of a cat-suited dominatrix concatenated with the way the other woman was authoritatively steering them through this little scene, and her mind conjured up a beatific vision of _Shaw_ in a sleek red catsuit, prodding at deliciously-attractive individuals of all genders in cute little leather harnesses and hot pants with her spike-heeled shiny boots. Some writhing in abject ecstasy on the floor at her slightest frown, while others brought her bloody steaks and delicious cocktails, or demonstrated beautifully-lethal sniper rifles and manicured her nails… although possibly they wouldn’t be doing all of those things at once.

Root blinked her eyes to dissipate the appealing image and smiled (professionally!) up at Shaw.

“Ce serait avec plaisir, madame,” she said in a voice that came out low-pitched and throaty without her willing it. 10

Shaw’s eyes narrowed an infinitesimal amount, as if she were unsure whether Root was being sarcastic. Root herself positively glowed with the idea of making up for her error (and getting the fun stuff back on track again), and after a couple of beats, Shaw downed the rest of her whisky and shoved at the ottoman with her foot. “Get this out of the way and get started, then.”

Root got up move the ottoman and grabbed a cushion off the couch. She seated herself on it by Shaw’s feet, tucking her legs beside her. Since Shaw had not given any specific instructions on how she was to arrange herself, Root wanted to ensure she wouldn’t get a numb ass from being on the floor for an extended period. She had a feeling it wouldn’t be _too_ extended, though. Shaw was subtly picking up the pace.

Shaw very helpfully crossed her lower legs and propped one heel on the floor, leaving the other foot resting above her ankle. Belatedly, Root realised there was no way in hell she was going to be able to bend over far enough to reach it, even sitting as she was. She didn’t look up at Shaw, because she knew that the smug little shit would be enormously entertained by Root’s quandary, no matter how much she might hide it behind that neutral expression of hers.

_Well, fuck it. Might as well go all in._

Root pulled the cushion from beneath her, and lifted Shaw’s legs to place the cushion under her heel. At least _someone_ would be a little more comfortable. She then lowered herself to the floor, squirming around (annoyingly difficult in her skirt and heels) until she was lying propped up on her side, her face near Shaw’s free foot. She made sure that her legs were arranged as elegantly as possible, given the circumstances, and flipped her hair back over her shoulder, ready as she could be.

She could feel her face and chest had flushed up and she still felt reluctant to look at Shaw—she wasn’t often self-conscious, but she was no longer in the mood to be laughed at. Bracing herself mentally, she finally raised her eyes. Shaw was looking back down at her with her _processing_ expression: face completely neutral, lips very slightly pursed, head cocked to one side, and her dark intense eyes fixed unwaveringly on Root’s face.

Carefully taking hold of Shaw’s foot, Root lowered her mouth to it, pressing her lips to the high arch in a deliberate kiss. Shaw’s eyes flickered, just the smallest amount, and her lips lost some of their tension. Subtly reassured, Root slid her mouth down Shaw’s instep, massaging with her lips as she went. Shaw’s eyelashes distinctly fluttered and she sharply exhaled through her nostrils. Emboldened, Root caressed Shaw’s foot with her hand as she fastened her mouth on the arch of Shaw’s instep, lips and tongue and light suction all working together. She was startled to hear Shaw groan aloud at the sensation as her eyes slammed shut and she _squirmed_ in her seat.

 _Holy shit_ , thought Root to herself as she caressed, sucked and lightly bit at Shaw’s delicate skin, her own body responding to the barely-controlled sounds that Shaw made. She had not actually considered the possibility that Shaw would be _into_ this. Although given her pragmatic attitude towards pretty much everything, it stood to reason she wouldn’t do it _just_ to mindfuck Root. 

Two targets with a single bullet. Naturally.

Even the dreaded (and gross-sounding) _toe sucking_ became an unexpected delight from the moment Root wrapped her lips around Shaw’s pinky toe, while Shaw’s eyes avidly watched her face. Root steadily looked back as she smoothly slid her mouth down and swirled her tongue over the delicate flesh. Shaw’s eyes literally rolled up heavenwards as she threw her head back and exclaimed a guttural _ah!_ , her body quivering as Root paid diligent and individual attention to each carefully-manicured digit. 

The detail of the toenail polish exactly matching the shade that she’d just applied so meticulously to Sameen’s fingernails was not lost on Root. And it did nothing to lessen the almost overwhelming tide of lust that was building deeper in her groin, flushing her chest and cheeks and nose, until she was struggling to not let her breathing get as ragged around the edges as Shaw’s was now. It was as unrestrained as Root had ever heard from her, not without her fingers buried knuckle-deep inside.

After running out of toes, Root found herself lying supine on the rug at the foot of the armchair, nuzzling gently at Shaw’s feet, which were partially resting in the crook of her shoulder and partially nestled in her hands, her thumbs continuing to make slow circles over Shaw’s silky skin. Her body was a slow-moving hot pool of _want_ , awaiting Sameen’s next direction on what she was to do next.

Shaw shifted in her seat, gently disengaging her feet from Root’s mouth, but not her hands. Her hair was disheveled, her eyes shining and pupils blown, her lips swollen and red from biting at them in her pleasure. Her eyes sharpened as she sat up a little more and collected herself. 

“Time was up six minutes ago, Root,” she said soberly, meeting Root’s anticipatory gaze. “I didn't mean to miss the deadline.” 

Root couldn’t see any sign of a clock, but The Machine whispered confirmation through her implant. Root felt her lips form a small sideways smile in appreciation as she shared back at Shaw, extremely satisfied at the distracting effect she had achieved.

“And, uh,” Sameen continued, not quite blushing. “Nice recovery from your little error. I’m very pleased with your service to pay off our bet. So we’re all done here now.”

Root moved to a sitting position, carefully lowering Shaw’s feet to the floor as she did so. She rose up onto her knees, wedged her body between Shaw’s legs, and leaned down to prop her crossed arms on the other woman's thighs in a cosy fashion. Shaw’s appreciative smile broke out at the familiar position.

“I don’t know, Sam,” Root drawled flirtatiously. “It seems like our business here isn’t quite concluded. It’d be pretty unprofessional if I left things as they are, since you seem not to be as relaxed as you should be after a proper foot massage.” 

Shaw nodded, entertained, as Root leaned in further, her body making intimate contact with Shaw’s hot core.

“So let’s get the job done. Maybe I can even earn myself a bonus.” She did her appalling wink at Shaw, who returned a moderate eyeroll and snorted with amusement.

Root straightened, took off her _nerd glasses_ and placed them on the side table. She leaned closer and deliberately skimmed her hands up Shaw’s legs under the robe, her thumbs trailing along Shaw’s inner thighs. When her hands reached the top of Shaw's legs, she flipped the robe open, fully exposing Shaw’s body to her gaze.

“Si tu le veux, ma biche,” Root said, her voice dropping a register into its most sensual tones. 11 Root's hands gripped her thighs and she moved in to take Shaw's mouth with her own. Shaw groaned as Root's tongue met hers and a hot rush of fire ignited her already heated blood. Root withdrew her mouth slowly, her lips caressing as they left Shaw's. She sat back slightly to take in the view again, biting down on her lower lip and eyeing Shaw’s body as if she were ready to _consume_ it. 

_That_ voice, their meltingly hot kiss, and the appearance of those feral teeth with the lip-bite on top of everything that had gone on before added up to _game over_ for Shaw. She shifted to let her thighs fall open further, allowing Root any access she wanted. 

“Ouais, vas-y,” she growled thickly, urgently craving more of Root's hands and mouth and what they were going to do to her. 12

Root slid down her body and ran her tongue with the perfect pressure through Shaw’s wetness, eliciting a barely bit-off groan. Shaw’s well-cared-for feet rose up and locked themselves behind the small of Root’s back, pulling her in closer just as three of Root’s long fingers thrust deep inside, _filling_ her. Root looked up at the sound of her poorly-suppressed shout of pleasure, and did that ridiculous wink again, making Shaw laugh out loud.

Smiling, deservedly smug, Root lowered her head, and her fingers and mouth began the deep mindshattering rhythm that instantly earned her as many good-work bonuses as she could ever care to claim, even before Shaw’s laugh turned into the usual jumble of incoherent cursing and moans.

* * *

  1. Absolutely, ma’am. I understand. ↩

  2. Of course, ma’am. ↩

  3. As you wish. (Informal _you_ ) ↩

  4. Ah-ah, _miss_. (Shaw is drawing attention to Root’s mistake and reminding her that she’s a subordinate in this scenario. You never address a grown woman as _mademoiselle_ these days, unless you’re being an arsehole, or you’re 90.) ↩

  5. As you wish, ma’am! (Formal _you_ ) ↩

  6. ( _Vouvoyer_ means to address someone with the formal _you_ ( _vous_ ). _Tutoyer_ is the opposite, when you address someone with the informal version ( _tu_ ).) ↩

  7. You’re welcome. (Very formal) ↩

  8. I’m sorry, ma’am. Mr Finch and Chef John have already gone home. I will talk to them about it tomorrow. ↩

  9. As you please, ma’am. ↩

  10. It would be my pleasure, ma’am. ↩

  11. If it’s alright with you, my darling. ↩

  12. Yeah, do it. ↩





End file.
